Illusive (2 page)

But for the moment, none of that matters.

They are young. They are criminals. They are glorious.

They are immune.

W
hen Ciere was eight, her mother told her the story of how the immunities came into existence.

Once upon a time, there was a pandemic.

It was a new strain of meningococcal disease. Named Meningococcas Krinotas—or simply the MK plague—it embodied the worst traits of both viral and bacterial meningitis. Because it was a virus, antibiotics had no effect, and the current viral vaccines were ineffective.

The result was a disease that, when diagnosed, was always followed by a funeral.

In 2017, the virus first cropped up in Chad and it went mostly unnoticed. Even when the disease spread to Niger, Mali, and Algeria, only a few virologists took notice. But when Egypt’s morgues overflowed, the rest of the globe finally woke up.

Countries scrambled to make sense of the new disease, and governments advised their citizens to avoid Africa. The warnings came too late. A woman returned from a trip to the pyramids. She took one step into John F. Kennedy International Airport and there was no going back. The disease swiftly spread throughout America, to Europe, to the Middle East, and into Asia.

Schools shut down; children stayed indoors; public areas were avoided; hospitals had to turn people away. A black market in useless antibiotics raged, some of them genuine but most of them not. People who usually dealt in pot or coke found themselves selling penicillin. Not that it helped.

About six months after the MK plague landed on American soil, a spot of hope finally appeared. Fiacre Pharmaceuticals announced a new vaccine called Praevenir. It wasn’t a cure, but the vaccine provided immunity against MK. Almost immediately the vaccine sold out, and Fiacre Pharmaceuticals was hard-pressed to keep up with the demand. The company, small by industry standards, was headed by owner and CEO Brenton Fiacre. His company enjoyed overnight success. The commercials for Praevenir flashed on televisions worldwide.

We exist in uncertain times. But there is one thing you can count on. Praevenir—the only vaccine that protects against the deadly MK virus. Protect yourself and your loved ones. Be certain. Praevenir. (Side effects may include itching at the site of
injection, dizziness, weakness, fever, and rash. More serious side effects may include fainting, convulsions, and difficulty breathing. Praevenir is not recommended for women who are nursing or pregnant.)

Later, the blame was placed on undue pressure to distribute the vaccine. Fiacre Pharmaceuticals simply did not take the time it needed to thoroughly test the vaccine. It was pushed through and approved by the FDA in a matter of months.

If the truth had been known, the commercials would have sounded something like this:

Side effects may include itching at the site of injection, dizziness, weakness, fever, and rash. Approximately 0.003% of those vaccinated may experience one of the following adverse effects: telepathy, perfect recall, increased intuition, the ability to create illusions, levitation, body manipulation, and hypnosis. Praevenir is not recommended for a world that wants to avoid global conflict.

And so everything humanity had thought about itself came crumbling down. Scientists scrambled to make sense of the side effects. Everyone had questions. How many had been vaccinated? Millions? Billions? How many had these powers? What was the extent of the new abilities?

Chaos broke out. Six months after Praevenir’s release, Brenton Fiacre locked himself and his family in a warehouse
full of the vaccine. He blew it to pieces, killing everyone inside and destroying what was left of his creation.

Some claimed the vaccine’s side effects were meant to change the world for the better. This would be the beginning of a new world order—an age of real superheroes, here to solve humanity’s problems. Those with powers would fight crime and put things right. However, there was one flaw with that reasoning.

Human physiology was altered. Human nature wasn’t.

Barely a year after Praevenir hit the market, the Pacific War broke out.

W
e ready to go yet?” Ciere asks, poking her head out of the bathroom. Her curls are damp from the shower, but there’s no time to let them dry properly.

Devon sits on the bed, his tablet cradled on his knees. “Hold on,” he says, and his brow creases in concentration.

“Well, hurry up.”

Devon huffs out a breath. “Fetch your things. By the time you’re finished, we’ll be ready to go.”

Each immunity has weaknesses, limitations. Illusions only fool human senses. If the human element is eliminated—say, by a security camera—then the illusion crumbles. Unfortunately, cameras are impervious to suggestion.

For that reason, Ciere usually wears a physical mask of some sort—a ski mask or a balaclava. That way, if a camera
catches her, all that will be seen is a petite teenage girl wearing a mask. There will be no record of her facial features. But her usual mask is missing. She vaguely remembers it vanishing in the midst of a mosh pit.

“So are we taking or leaving the dog?” Ciere asks. She tries to ignore the way the puppy leans against her ankle and pants up at her. The stupid thing looks so happy to see her. “I’m not exactly the pet-owning type.”

“Come on,” Devon says. He has wedged a hotel pen between his teeth and chews on it absentmindedly. “Doesn’t every great hero need a mascot?”

“I’m not a hero,” Ciere grumbles. “And I thought you fulfilled the mascot requirement.”

Devon makes a disgruntled noise. “Shut up. Mascots are just there to look cute. I’m useful.”

She can’t argue with that. Devon has been studying security systems for years. Specifically, he’s studied how to hack security with his illegally modified tablet. “God, I love these wireless systems,” he murmurs. “So much easier to break into. One more… just a minute… and there! Loop’s in place—we’ve got about three minutes before it’s blatant that something’s off.” He takes the pen from his mouth and uses it to gesture at Ciere. “Well, go on, then. Do your thing.”

Ciere closes her eyes. She conjures up an image of an old woman—white hair pooled into a bun, wrinkles settling in
around her features—and her clothes shift into sagging polyester. She darkens her skin, altering its shade to match Devon’s. A young man and his grandmother will look perfectly innocent.

Devon shakes his head, grinning. “You have no idea how mad it is to see that.”

Arm in arm, she and Devon emerge into downtown Manhattan. Despite the fact it isn’t yet noon, the sun already beats down on the back of Ciere’s neck. She sucks in lungfuls of hot, humid air, tasting sweat and exhaust. Steam flows up from sewer grates, and people swarm the sidewalks—everyone from the homeless with their blackened teeth and sunken eyes to businessmen with tailored suits and briefcases. Ciere has to dodge several tourists as they shuffle past. She tilts her head back and gazes at the city. The buildings are an odd mix of classical arches, sleek skyscrapers, and the grunge that has taken root in the urban areas like mold in an old bag of bread.

Devon releases her arm, hand raised to flag down a taxi. One screeches to a stop, and Ciere slides gratefully into the backseat, the leather upholstery sticking to her bare legs. In her illusion, she wears a pantsuit. In reality, she wears a sundress. It’s too hot for anything heavier.

The cab driver gives Ciere’s dog a doubtful look, and she smiles. “Don’t worry,” she lies, trying to sound old. Illusions won’t change her voice. “The dog’s trained.”

The cabbie turns away with a grunt of acceptance, and
Devon rattles off the name of the train station. The car flies forward and Ciere digs her nails into the worn leather of the seats. The cab swings into traffic in a move both terrifying and utterly illegal. Ciere quickly fumbles for her seat belt. Once she’s firmly belted in, she closes her eyes, hoping for enough time to rest.

Only minutes later, Devon touches her arm and his voice is in her ear, low and urgent. “Four turns,” he says.

It takes her a moment to bring her mind around, and when she does, she jerks fully awake. There are ways to tell if you’re being followed, either on foot or by car. One of the more reliable ways is to count how many turns a person behind you takes.

“We’re being followed?” Ciere asks softly.

Devon nods. His eyes are intent on the rearview mirror. “Black Honda Pilot, looks like the 2016 make. Didn’t know those things still ran. Tinted windows. I’ve got the plate numbers, too.”

“Feds?”

“Not government-issue plates, but you never know,” Devon murmurs. “Options?”

Ciere frowns. “Not a lot we can do in a cab. Not if we don’t want to seem suspicious. Hopefully there’ll be a lot of traffic around the station and we can duck into the crowd.”

It’s not a good plan, but they’re not swamped with options.

When the cab pulls up in front of the station, Devon shoves a handful of twenties at the cabbie and scrambles out of the car, following Ciere. She’s already slammed her door,
and she strides into the train station, holding the dog in her arms. There isn’t a huge crowd, but there are enough people around to make Ciere relax. Devon falls into step beside her. “I think the tail drove on,” he says.

“So our plan worked?” she replies.

“Actually, I think there wasn’t any place for them to park.”

“Can we pretend our plan worked?”

“If anyone asks, we made a daring escape.”

They find an empty bench just inside the station. They’ve got a good twenty minutes to waste, so to pass the time, Ciere says, “I spy…” They have their own version of this game. Instead of spying objects, they look for security. There are two types of deadly agents, and it’s a point of pride that good crooks can tell the two apart.

“Man lurking near the women’s toilet,” Devon mutters.

Ciere squints through the crowd. She can just make out the man—he wears a baseball cap. His eyes continually roam over the crowd and there is a slight bulge around his left ankle. “Mobster,” Ciere says firmly.

Devon nods and gestures to a woman lounging against another wall. She pretends to check her cell phone. She wears business casual, a matching skirt and blazer. Her blouse’s neckline is low enough that Devon looks interested in more than the game. This time the bulge is under her right shoulder. “Fed,” Ciere says.

“Damn,” Devon says. “Can’t hit on a fed.”

“Can’t hit on a mobster, either,” Ciere points out.

The fed eyes the mobster. The mobster grins and touches two fingers to the rim of his baseball cap in a mocking acknowledgment. Eyes narrowing, the fed turns away from the taunt. The feds used to go after organized crime, but that was before the war.

As she and Devon wait, Ciere digs into her backpack for the Hello Kitty bobblehead she swiped from the Newark bank. She’s not one for sentimental keepsakes, but when she saw it on the teller’s desk, it triggered a rush of memories—the smell of trees, a warm hand in hers, and the scent of lavender. Taking the bobblehead seemed like a harmless way to hold on to those sensations.

Devon makes a concerned noise. “He’s looking at us,” he says under his breath. “Mob bloke with the hat is giving us the interested eye.”

Ciere forces herself not to look. It would be an amateurish slip. “He can’t see us—not the real us. My illusion’s still up and he’s not using a camera.”

Devon’s mouth creases into a thin line. “Still staring.”

“Stop panicking. Maybe you’re his type.”

“I’m not panicking, I’m just calmly noting the armed mobster who keeps looking at us. What’s there to be panicky about?”

Ciere grits her teeth, and says, “Pet the dog—you’ll feel better.”

Obediently, Devon’s hand rises and falls over the dog’s head. The puppy leans into his touch, tongue lolling as it pants. Ciere lets her eyes wander everywhere but the mobster; she glances at the crowds, at the fed, at the clock announcing that it’s nearly noon on June 26, 2034.

Although she keeps her gaze forward, the rest of her senses strain toward the mobster. That’s how she notices another man walking toward him. She glances over and takes in both men, quickly absorbing the details before pretending to study the dog on her lap.

The first man, the mobster with the baseball cap, has sandy brown hair and about a thousand teeth. He bares all of them in a grin. Combine that grin with his six-foot-something height and the way his sleeves strain over thickly muscled arms, and it’s a shudder-worthy sight. The man looks like he wrestles great white sharks for fun and probably wins.

The second man is less terrifying. His face is lean and tanned, his blond hair bleached by sun. He isn’t an imposing figure—about five and a half feet tall and thin-shouldered. But he has a steady expression.

Devon makes a disgruntled noise and focuses his gaze on the men, apparently giving up on subterfuge. “What are they saying?” Ciere asks. Devon learned to lip-read a long time ago.
(“Mostly to spy on my older sister and her friends,” he once admitted.)

“Not English. Think it’s, uh, give me a second.” Devon darts a look at the men. “I could be wrong, but I think it’s German.”

Ciere frowns. “You never learned German? Come on, it’s not like it’d be hard for you.”

“Hey, we’ve all got our priorities,” Devon protests. “And from what I can tell, knowing security systems and hacking seems a lot more useful than learning the languages of unallied countries.” He pauses mid-rant, and then adds, “Also, I flunked out of all my language classes.”

“Don’t tell me—you refused to learn anything that wasn’t a curse or a pickup line.”

“Nothing so elaborate. I just didn’t show up.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ciere sees the first man point a hand at the crowd, dragging his index finger through the air. When he stops, the tip of that finger is aimed squarely at Ciere and Devon.

“They’re walking toward us,” Devon says, and his voice shoots up a few octaves.

“Look casual,” Ciere says. “My illusion’s still up. I’m old and you’re a nice young boy who’s escorting his granny around. Smile.”

Devon forces his mouth into a twitching, teeth-baring parody of a smile. “This good?”

“Hold that expression,” Ciere says, “and they’ll think you’re having a stroke.”

A shadow falls over the bench and Ciere looks up, feigning surprise. “Oh,” she says, in her best creaky voice, “can I help you, sirs?”

The blond man smiles down at Ciere. “Actually, you can.” His English is unaccented, perfectly precise. “Take down your illusion.”

Ciere’s heart stutters and picks up at double speed. “W-what?”

“It’s a good illusion,” the man says. “Drop it.” The last part isn’t a request. His voice holds a confidence that indicates he is used to giving orders and having those orders be obeyed.

Ciere hesitates.

The man raises a finger, twirling it around in a circular gesture. “Chop, chop.”

Ciere doesn’t move.

He smiles and slips a hand into his jacket pocket, grasping a small, rectangular sheet of paper. “We’ll see if this can change your mind.”

“Polaroid,” Devon mutters, as if he can’t help regurgitating the information. “Antique form of instant camera without a digital platform.”

The man’s smile widens. “Ah, the lad knows his history. Now, if you’ll take a look at this…” He holds out the picture and Ciere can’t help but glance at it.

She sees a girl with hair that is curly, blonde, and chopped short. The face is round, the chin pointed. To Ciere’s eyes, there is something rodentlike about the features. The picture girl is petite, grinning, and sitting at a bus stop beside a tall black boy in designer jeans and a T-shirt. The girl is holding a Hello Kitty bobblehead, gesturing at it like it is the most glorious of trophies. Ciere recognizes the scene immediately. She should—it happened last night.

“I can’t,” she says, and her voice comes out strangled. “Not here. The fed will see.”

The dark-haired mobster slips out of his jacket and holds it out to Ciere. She flinches, but then understands. He drapes it over her head and shoulders, and it’s large enough to cover everything but her legs, shielding her from sight. She closes her eyes and inhales. The jacket smells like cheap laundry detergent, with hints of aftershave. Ciere releases the breath—along with her illusion.

The girl who hands the jacket back is identical to the one in the photo.

“Who are you?” she says, and to her credit her voice remains steady. “What do you want?”

It’s the blond man who replies. “My name,” he says, “is Brandt Guntram.”

Brandt Guntram is a mobster. He and the other man, whom Guntram introduces as Conrad, sit on either side of the bench,
effectively trapping Ciere and Devon. They could cry for help—the fed nearby would have to react—but neither Ciere nor Devon wants to be on the government’s radar. Besides, the fed has begun searching train passengers. She stops people at random and asks them for their ID tags. When one woman doesn’t get them off her neck quickly enough, the fed yanks them over the woman’s head, heedless of the hair tangled in the chain.

Ciere turns her attention back to the mobsters. These men aren’t your garden-variety mobsters. No—when Ciere’s luck dives, it dives hard.

“We represent the Gyr Syndicate,” Guntram says.

Devon’s lips form a silent curse.

The Gyr Syndicate are from Nevada, where they rose to power and eliminated the Mafia, the Triad, and every other gang or cartel that dared enter its territory. Ciere hasn’t heard much, but what she does know is enough to frighten any sane criminal. The Syndicate doesn’t function like a normal crime family—there are no blood feuds or old entanglements to settle. They operate more like a deadly corporation. Any lawbreakers must answer to the Syndicate when they want to work within their dominion.

“But the Gyr don’t come here,” Ciere says, feeling slow.

Brandt Guntram nods. “We’ve been expanding our reach. We thought the East Coast might benefit from a little… order.”

Ciere bites back a reply, unsure what to say.

Devon has no such problem. “Order?” he says, with such obvious contempt that Ciere feels a thrill of fear.

Guntram seems to finally notice Devon. “This area has been thrown into chaos by the actions of the local criminal element. We’re here to remedy that.” In other words, Ciere thinks, they’re here to stamp out all the competition so their own organization will thrive.